Madness, Constraint, Subjection
by brilliant disguise
Summary: We find ourselves X amount of years after 1984 takes place. Winston is no longer a freethinking individual. He has undergone three steps: madness, constraint, and subjection.


AUTHOR'S NOTE. I wrote this for English class - it was a creative writing project based on _1984_, in which you project into the future of the novel. It was pretty open-ended, so this is what I came up with. Enjoy!

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Winston Smith sat at a long wooden table, his hands tied behind his back. He stared straight ahead, although he could not see clearly across to the opposite edge of the table. It was completely dark, save for the lone ceiling lamp suspended limply above his head. If he squinted hard enough he could make out the form of a person sitting across from him, but with every blink he took, the form changed shape. It was silent as well, yet a woman's strong vibrato echoed faintly from behind. It was strange; he didn't know where he was, yet an eerie calm had seeped into his head as he recognized the mysterious figure's dark moustache and lean face as that of Big Brother. Could it be? He continued to stare ahead, almost magnetized. Big Brother's eyes were piercing and emotionless, and Winston wanted nothing more than to escape his fastening. Yet something in Big Brother's eyes kept him still as a statue, and he did not move nor speak. He subconsciously noted that the woman's voice grew louder, as if she were approaching, and the song she was singing became completely audible. The song struck a chord in his memory - did he have one anymore? - and it almost pained him to try to think of how he knew it. Suddenly, a memory - was it even that anymore? - came to him, as sudden and unexpected as a lightening bolt, but gone just as quickly. His heart almost stopped, for in the eyes of Big Brother appeared something he hadn't seen in a long time. Was it disgust? Repulsion? Hatred? The table disappeared. Winston was now lying on the wooden floor. The ceiling was painted blue and white, as if made to resemble a summertime sky. An invisible hand began painting letters in large, sloppy, contrastingly red letters: "WAR IS . SLAVERY IS . IGNORANCE IS ." Winston smiled; he knew the answer to this riddle. He reached his arm up, suddenly holding a paintbrush, and began to fill in the blanks. Yet what he attempted to write was not what appeared. Instead, the ceiling read:

WAR IS MADNESS.

SLAVERY IS CONSTRAINT.

IGNORANCE IS SUBJECTION.

-

Winston jarred from his sleep with a sudden rush of frazzled energy. He tried to regain focus as his chest heaved and his forehead dripped with cold sweat. Looking around his flat, he recognized the covered window, bureau, and ceiling: a pure white color, devoid of writing. He sighed with false relief, convincing himself that it was a meaningless dream and nothing more. The images, thoughts, and puzzlement all dissipated from his mind not soon after. It wasn't so much that he forgot, than that he had become so used to suppressing his internal questions. It had become second nature for him to simply ignore his dreams. He wasn't sure why, but the small glimmer of remembrance which he experienced so very often in his dreams seemed to send off an alarm throughout his entire body. It was an alarm that commanded him to reach over to his nightstand, grasp the clear shot glass and fill it up to the brim with the smooth, velvet substance from which all tranquility and peace spread and flourished.

About ten minutes later, he wordlessly floated to the Ministry of Truth and soon found himself standing on a scaffold, paintbrush in hand. Before him hung a magnanimous poster of Big Brother, with the same piercing eyes that Winston was no longer able to recall from his dream. His hands moved without his brain's command as he painted the Party's well-known slogan in large, bold print onto the poster. The head of the Department of Advertising, (a division Winston never knew had existed), instructed him this morning of his ten assignments for today: a poster here, a poster there, and a sign outside the Café, amongst others. It never crossed Winston's tainted mind how superfluous his job really was, yet he performed it with mindless perfection; day in and day out, he arrived for "work" on time with a paintbrush and the Party's slogan reverberating in his head.

It was three o'clock, and his shift was over. He had completed all ten tasks and contentedly made his way to the Café. He knew what was waiting for him at his usual table. He took his seat and, ignoring the telescreen's unrelenting stream of noise which was slowly turning into a muffled hum, mercilessly chugged the glass of gin that waited for him every day, calling his name and beckoning him forth. All sounds in the room seemed to subside: so much, that even his own thoughts seemed quieted. Not that he was thinking much at all; in fact, he was trying not to think. The alarm had begun to sound again, reminding him not to delve too deeply into his thoughts. If he ignored this siren long enough, visions of darkness would fill his head and pangs of pain would shoot through his body. This is why his glass of sweet mercy was never too far from reach: he learned very early on not to let the ringing continue for too long.

When Winston finally emerged, it was nearing midnight. A few minutes later, the last person to leave, the same man who filled and refilled Winston's glass, retrieved said glass from the table. He looked down at the words etched into the dust, and smiled to himself. The morning crew would clean off these tables in the morning, but every night, in the dust that collects during the day, the same words would reappear.

As he left the room, a telescreen flickered and faded into obscure fuzz, a whitish-blue light serenading the empty chairs. The light spread far into the back of the room, where Winston's words could be read by the solitary night:

WAR IS MADNESS PEACE.

SLAVERY IS CONSTRAINT FREEDOM.

IGNORANCE IS SUBJECTION STRENGTH.

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A/N. Thanks for reading! Please review, I'd love to hear what you think. 


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